JFK does not stand for John F Kennedy Airport

...but it's inappropriate what I want to call it right now.

The last entry was about fall. And now, I'm sitting in JFK at 4:30, where I've been since 11 am staring at the snow I've longed for for a long time now.

I've been on the road since 5:30am. One 15 dollar veggie burger later, and a lot of whiney people, and I'm still sitting in JFK wishing I didn't wish for snow.

Really, what I need to do is wish for a seat on this fully booked flight... seems like wishing for things out of my control worked for me when I wanted all this white stuff--- which is keeping me from my destination.

And today, the day is about the destination, not the journey. During this journey, a tired version of myself has steered away from chatting up a storm like I would normally do, instead I listened to a lot of whiners, a lot of unhappy people, and even my own wailings about 'unfairness' of flights and snow and blah blah blah.

After listening to a lot of it, it does make me want to just shut them up, shut up myself and then go play in the snow. Snow angels on the runway? Maybe that'll make me not want to call J.F.K. Just F.... nevermind. Fingers crossed. Snow angels in Rochester.

Falling for It

I'd like to Thank the Fall season for always being true to itself and for renewing each year my love for fall, and to echo Elena "making me want to eat pumpkin flavored everything."

It's like a baby. You could see a million babies--- but their little baby feet would still bring wonder, amazement, and the desire to cover them with ink and walk them across oaktag. I've had 25 Fall's, and I still want to smell the smells, taste the tastes and find another way to consume a pumkin.

Attachment and Caring

Caring about something is an interesting, lovely and sometimes slippery slope. Attachment and Caring seem to go hand in hand. A wise being would probably interrupt to inform me, at this moment, that infact Attachement and Caring do not have to go hand in hand. They can walk seperately.

I guess I just wonder if their hands would get cold... and, inevitebly join for warmth.

A Querks and the beginning of the Desert

So. I want to finish blogging about my trip for the single reason that I want to finish some journey here in blog land. I always get distracted, have a poor finish record.




Thursday.

I hiked in Black Kettle National Grasslands and at the sight of a Native American slaughter by we friendly whites back in the times of covered wagons and 'rights to land' we thought we had. I cried and walked through amazing grasslands at the exact place of the murder of so many innocent native americans and 200 ponies.

After that walk, I walked in the bright sun on a trail in the Grasslands were I scared pheasants (?) and collected burrs on my shoes and sun on my skin. Lovely warm breeze, hot sun... great walk.

I found Celeste easily in Albuquerqe, we had a brief chat before she left for her class. I spilled my bear story and chatted with the flair of a twelve year old girl who had been grounded. She left for class, I showered, (amazing!) and settled on watching New Moon, the second of this crazy vampire story that has taken the 10-20 year olds by storm the past several years. Angrily, I did some sit ups as I watched an insufficient female star lack personality, remaining, however as the woman everyone loved and fought for. Also, my closing comment on the matter is this: it is not necessary to have the main character hit her head so often and have a man run to her side each time. Get up, girl, and make your own path in life from time to time.

Celeste returned much later than planned, and we went out with her friend Jamie to a local pub. Pub faire did not treat me well. I foolishly ordered a blue cheese dip, served with brown Irish bread and Irish potato chips. This can be boiled down, or fried down, into a simple description: cheesy fat. It hurt my heart to eat, but through alternating with Celeste’s nacho’s and Jamie’s green chile cheese fries, my heart went from hurting to pumping slowly past closing arteries. The conversation was delightful, as well as the beer and the surroundings. You win some, you lose some, and some leave you on the toilet.

The next morning I took a 20 minute jog, hoping to dislodge some of the cheese and grease. Short, but successful, through the warming streets of Albuquerqe, I was so glad to work up a sweat and be moving, not sitting. There was a breeze in the air, and I greeted pancake cacti and prickly pears as I jogged to the grocery store, made stock of the flower choices, and then jogged back and forth again to make my sweaty purchases. I should have run longer, that’s clear, but that I got my butt in gear is something notable, I’d say.

I left the Querk (as I’d like it to be called) and took off for the petrified forest. As I drove I created a new goal: take petrified photos in the petrified forest. I enjoyed my coffee and scones as the mid day southwest lay out before me along I-40.

Vistas. This began a whole new land of vistas, a whole newly designed horizon, like the Midwest and the southwest decided to etch out something unique, in order to be unique. Dry and flat, with tufts of tough green shrubbery and the occasional tumble weed (I kid you not). The mesas in the distance, flat tables of earth, were so different than everything I new mountains to be. I’d seen these before, and I was no stranger to the horizons of the southwest, but, even so, I was impressed. Being easily impressed is a great personality trait, I’ve decided.

I met a NY couple who huffed and puffed quickly with me on the many short hikes, trying to beat the sun and the clock and the ranger that threatetened to kick us out when the sun dissappeared.

Petrified, and a camera filled with petrifed photos, missing the big horn sheep (?), I left to the unknown yet familiar Flagstaff.

I Know I Overreacted

I'll be the first to tell you. The first. I. Over.Re.Act.Ed.

Ozarks were wet, green and foggy but wet wet wet. Up the mountain, 15 miles away from any human and I met a bear on a lovely trail. A mountain side rim trail. Blues babies in the moring, bears in the evening... oh yeah, lots of driving in between. AND. Here is where Bill Bryson comes into play.

In the third chapter, maybe, of Bill Bryson's 'A Walk in the Woods' he discusses his fear and factoids about bear attacks. This goes on for about 5 minutes in the Hoda Fit as I ascend White Rock Mountain in the fog, rain and mud of the Ozarks.

This was a poor choice, you see, when, 45 minutes later, I met a bear on the trail. We could have high fived really, the bear and I.

Let's just say when I sing "Singing in the Rain" I will fondly remember this moment... jacket over my head, shouting the chorus over and over again... no, not the chorus, the one line I know... because it seemed appropiriate to not getting eaten by a bear while alone on a mountain rim in the rain and fog.

Now we can go back to that earlier post that describes my fitful sleep on the lonely mountain. This is where stories join and the journey continues. Details about the bear have been left out, this is one too many posts for one day.

Blue Babies of Memphis

Memphis.

Sunday Night, Monday and Tuesday Morning. Carlos time.

Wonderful sweet Carlos the now kindergarden teacher of some cute babies, I mean children in the land of the blues.

The highlights of my time with Miestro Navarro?

Sunset on the Mississippi River, Big Ass Beers on Beale street and the adorable kindergarden class of characters. Each little baby's first time in school-- only 5 years on the planet and you could write a book about eacho of those little munchkins.

Smokey Mountain plus Every human in the bistate area...

Brevard. Saturday I rememebered that this particular Saturday was the worst Saturday to be where I was.



Great Smokey's National Park is the most visited national park in the country. Labor day weekend, the clear marking to the end of summer. The end of family camping, RV's and picnics, carefree swimming in rivers and barbeques.



While it may mark the end of this, it does so by overdoing all of these things. All of which fit perfectly, or can be crammed perfectly, into the smokies and the adjoining Pisgah National Forest, which is where I searched for a campsite.



I had read that you could camp anywhere on the main road that went through the forest. Perfect! I'll throw down my tent on the side of the road somewhere and meet Jason for dinner in Brevard. I called, letting him know I would need 1/2 hour to find a spot and rendez vous in town, and that, after a year, I was excited to see him.



Well, you can't camp on that road. That is clearly stated in a large sign with lettering that would make our nys health inspector proud (everything over 2"!). You can, however, camp on the sides roads, where the brown tent signs are posted... which happen to very few and far between.



After almost 45 minutes of gravel road hunting in the Fit, I headed back to town, ready to try out the camper feature of the car (lowering the front seat as far back as it will go), and sleep in a parking lot. Happy Labor Day!



The town of Brevard, is a cute little southern brick town at the foothills of the Pisgah National Forest, just south of Asheville (or Ashvegas as Jason calls it), with the slight air of a new england college town. Very slight, but noticable if you turn your head the right way and the breeze is blowing just so.

I headed the right way to pick up Jason and head into town for dinner. Seeing him was great! Seeing old friends you haven't seen in awhile is almost always great. We enjoyed a nice dinner in town and drank local brews as we caught up and told stories from the previous summer. From the goodness of his heart he let me stay in his extra bed, albeit against the rules of his housing arrangement. 6 days later I would sleep in my car, utilizing the 'RV setting,' and would be reflectively grateful for the bed in Brevard.

The next day--- Sunday?-- found me plus every human in Tenesseee and North Carolina attempting to reach clingman's dome (by car, of course). Before this several hour fiasco I enjoyed a delightful hummusy breakfast by Looking Glass falls after meeting Eve, who used to travel a lot and admired my solo nature. Before Clingman's I also had an amazing, but short, hour walk beside a stream where I splashed in the cool waters of a babbling brook in the heat of the afternoon. Oh so nice.

Clingman's dome was a test in my patience, and I passed with flying colors. I mean, waiting a traffic line in nature is not quintessential outdoor fun... but, a sunny sunday with amazing views was just pleasant. What could I do anyways? I was stuck, physically, might as well be stuck mentally.

When I got to the walking up the mountain part, I was so relieved to be sweating in the sun, a delicious cool breeze bringing startelingly piney smells that stopped me suddenly in my tracks. I must have looked drunk, pausing with my eyes closed to smell the air and smile serenely. Anyways, we huffed and puffed and made it to the 60's era concrete rampway above the mountain. 'We' is the aforementioned mob of humans. Everyone, from fit hikers to the grandma and the out of shape every-year-olds pushed ourselves up the hill. Everyone muttering that they would work out more after that evening's barbeque.

"I can't doooo it" a little plump girl around five puffed, her red curls and pink face stopping on the side of the trail.
"You can do it!" Her father said, " You have to say that you can do it, you have to to think that you CAN. So let me hear you say it, say you can do it! We'll do it together!"
He was so motivational it stopped me. I looked at the little girl, "You're almost there, and doing a great job!"
"See," the father said, "we're going to do this together!"

Hours of traffice, HOURS through a town whose name I forget, but is excellently described by Bill Bryson in A Walk in the Woods.

Bryson's book would fill the Fit for the next several hours, a timing mistake to be noted in another entry.

Georgia Georgia Bush

I always think about that song snippet when I think of Georgia. "Georgia, Georgia--BUSH." Anyways, Georgia was a short, yet pleasant saunter out of the way of my cross country trek. 6 hours of driving, 8 hours of socializing and 4 hours back to hit the 'start' of my westward expansion.

Friday night and Saturday morning I spent with my brother, his adorable son Adam and my soon to be (hm?) sister in law Jinsie. We walked to the park, went to dinner and in general soaked up Adam's infinite cuteness. Three years on this planet and I still want to coddle him in my arms like a baby. Maybe all that time away from him freezes him in an infant state? Either way he's cute, and intelligent, and creative... I forgot how creative little minds are.

Adam reminded me of this several times. Hissing like a cat in the grocery cart at the store, high fiving trees and giving branches back to their 'family' when the leafy relatives were found infront of his tricycle...did I mention how cute he is? I sometimes feel concerned that I can't properly interact with him because I just want to watch him and duck in to pinch his cheeks every few minutes.

Anyways, leaving the dog for his vacation, I shoved off and headed to Brevard to meet Jason and well 'start' what felt very started. Movement. West.

The Days Before

The Days Before my last post take us out of chronological order.

I go back to the beginning, it's a very good place to start.

After purchasing my car, my amazing Honda Fit (which I am trying to stop loving so that I do not create an attachment to a hunk of metal and plastic), I headed north to visit my grandmother in Charlottesville, NC.

I had been, previous to Virginia, more careful about what I consumed. Nothing after dinner, small meals, few processed foods and exercise one or two times a day. Virginia, however, while for lovers, is also for cooks.

My grandmother greeted me with an amazing late lunch after the three hour drive, the practice test for the grand cross country trip. She made a surprising cold peach soup, black bean and rice burgers on bread with a chipotle sauce and huge slices of bright red heirloom tomatos, a slightly creamy corn salad and corn on the cob. All, minus the corn, fruit and burgers were from her garden. Grown, in the heat of an unusually dusty Virginia summer.

It felt like she had wanted me to be there for breakfast and so had cooked for two meals. Eating too much is a strange sort of punishment. Even if you only tasted everything she served, your stomach would have ached. Luckily I knew this was coming and had eaten only a peach earlier. However, dinner was still in the future.

We chatted up a storm, like two hens at tea. Sharing stories of the summer, gardening tips, recipes, travel stories and general life dramas or pleasures. I could have sat at that table for hours chatting and watching the humming birds. Is it terrible that this is one of my favorite things to do? Not eat, although that is obviously up there on the list, but rather, to share food with good people at a table? You could even take away the table and I'd still be happy, although I think my grandmother in particular would not like being denied the joy of setting the table.

After dishes we looked through photos, chatted more and then as our bottoms fell asleep we rose to prepare another meal, this time together. We had corn on the cob, or maybe that was lunch, or maybe dinner, corn was there in some form (definently as a sugar in something). Vegetable lasagna and that day's garden pickings of cold cucumber dill salad paired with a chilled white wine and followed by a Hawaiian pie made for a summer dream.

As we ate the fresh strawberries, pineapple and pecans buried in the whipped cream my Grandmother told me stories of the past. Stories of the old days, of early 20th century, were something I craved when I got near my grandma. Perfect stories, told with her friendly yet deep southern accent and dotted with opinions and the laughter that recollection always brings were better than the pie.

Basement grape wine, thunderstorms, her sleepy head tendencies as a child, poverty, great grandmother, brothers, sisters, cousins and a great deal to do with living off the land because that's how you lived.

After an equally impressive breakfast (french toast, omelettes, fruit and spinach quiches) and the collecting together of my grandma gifts (hand picked and made blackberry and strawberry jams and oregano) I set off back to Raleigh. This trip, to this today, was the worst in my Fit.

I was feeling less than fit. Dizzy, hot and well, dizzy. I stopped and purchased (yes PURCHASED in this country) bottled water thinking maybe my bottle was causing the problem, I bought an air freshner and some crackers. Doesn't fail that we always consider combinations when ill. Could it be the car smell and the sun, or maybe the smell and the bumpy road? Maybe my body was rebelling from the decade's worth of food that I had presented it? Either way, I made it back, with a little help from David Sedaris and bottled water.

Next day passed, and then I set off, leaving my mom in tears, and the dog slobbering all over everything in the car down South now, to leave my brief mark in Georgia.

Days on the Road, Again!

Wednesday

I woke up in the morning with several flips of consciousness. It felt like I was awake all night. Maybe random spots of blankness where I can’t remember laying around and doing nothing. I did, however, do a lot of that. Laying, sitting, rolling, one side or the other wishing for sleep even though I did not feel tired. When I finally pulled myself out of the tent at 8am, I was tired, and everything was wet. It had rained. All night and harder in the morning. I was thankful for this, as it provided a constant and predictable source of noise. Forest rain music really, instead of a continual night of wondering what every noise was and how it would consume me. Really, I did that more than necessary despite soothing heavy rain noises. Something about my solo mind that seems unable to be quieted by my internal and external demands. “Stop it, please” I begged of my ever churning brain. Always churning out the worsts of situations, seemingly unable to appreciate just being.

Well, the morning was a series of weird choices and random tidbits. The highlight being a 15 minute walk in the pouring rain next to Shores Lake. The lowlight being the feeling of defeat and incapability as I drove away without a proper hike, in the pouring rain of highway 215, away from the bear-filled and beautiful Ozarks and back to the trustworthy 40.

The 40 took me to the town of Van Buren, which promised a college, promising (by my standards) a coffee shop with wireless and a hot, steamy latte. I wandered around the internet, trapped in various worldwide web’s of interest and social custom. After about an hour, I had found my next step in the game, had met Kari, who I knicknamed Greedows, for her green eyeshadow and enjoyed a warm cranberry scone and a latte, a little less steamy than I had imagined, but delightful none the less. I checked the weather, promising more rain, and checked the rest stops, promising a break before the texas border where I could stay for free if the idea of spending money to put up a tent in the pouring rain seemed dismal hours later.

Back in the car I finished Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods, which was lovely really and perfect for my adventure, although did notably make me more upset with my failures. Highlighted them really, placing my dark and failed tiny goals next to the backdrop of his shining accomplishment of hiking the AT.

After more potholed swiss cheese Interstate 40, the worst of all the states yet, I pulled off at 44 North, towards the town of Foss. Now, if there’s an idea you have of Oklahoma, it will be fulfilled by the small town of Foss. Cows, open fields, wind mills (maybe I imagined that), old, rusting equiptment, bouncing trucks, and stubbly yet surprisingly lush grass fields… that fit your picture at all? Anyways, even in the relentless drizzle, I was happy to be driving down this somewheresville road toward somewhere the internet had said had “wonderful and accommodating hosts.”

What Foss State Recreation Area campsite at “Chinaberry” had was a lack of hosts and signs: just some clean looking RVs, boats, a lapping lake and more of that Midwest drizzle. Oh, and a small tent campsite area amongst a stand of thin trees which seemed to have dropped beer cap leaves and cigarette butt buds everywhere. I cleared a space, put up the tent and then, in an attempt to be left alone after hours, went searching for how to pay. I’d already circled the area twice, pausing at anything with lettering. I went out to the main gate and across to the store… maybe that’s where you pay? The liquor store signs mentioned nothing. At the corner of the road, nothing as well. I did find where I could rent tubes and boats if drizzly Thursday wanted a morning stall. “Sorry I was late, thought I might just take a dip in the downpour on a reservoir in Oklahoma on a rented floaty toy.”

I walked around after I had settled that I had very valiantly attempted to pay for my 10 square feet of tent space and copious usage of toilet paper. I walked through some tall grass, past small trees, trying to quiet my mind that anything or anyone was going to pop out of the wet trees and try to mean me any harm. It was so difficult, and remains one of the trickiest things. I think it’s a self defense mechanism to not allow me to let my guard down, or to always be prepared. Whatever the subconscious reason, it’s getting rather difficult to enjoy my own company.

I tried very hard to enjoy my own silence as I sat in my final outside moments before my retreat into my tent. Pouring myself a glass of wine and adjusting my tiny set of binoculars I watched blue herons quietly do nothing along the shore. I wondered what they were wondering, then sipped my wine in a deliberate attempt to shut my brain, which was making me look back at my campsite every two minutes and wince at every noise that wasn’t a cicada or airplane. Finally I chose to ingnore, an internal bipolar war. I claimed Switzerland and took to neutrality, trying not to feel failure in the battle. I changed, put too much stuff in the tent, and crawled in. After a brief chat with my Uncle and Laura I sat for a spell of typing. Now, all the words I had been shuffling around in my head, in a mental drafting of this entry could be settled. Phew. Tomorrow is another day. A hike in the grasslands, an hour or two of walking in what I expect will be like a wild front yard, then hours on the road, hopefully ending in success of finding Celeste in Albuquerque.

Hippy back to Reality

Really, there are a lot of posts that could have that title.

I just want to highlight a discourse that has been on my mind for the past week since it took place.

Sarcastically I say, "Oh yeah, why don't we just bomb them? Because that really promotes peace and has a long lasting positive outcome!"

she laughs and says, "Oh, alright, HIPPY"


Wait, I think to myself, does that mean only people labeled Hippy believe war is wrong?
Wait, I realize, chillingly, some people are proponents of war. Proponents of bombs.
Wow, I sigh, I really have lost touch with the world.

Would you like fried okra with that?

Really, I just like that title. It has very little to do with this posting. Inspired by North Carolina, I guess... where fried okra abounds.

It's been a long time since I have written, and all day, I've written gobs of mental blogs. I guess when you're in the inbetweens that happens. Or if you (me, really) has coffee. Anyways.

I realized that I got so much joy today and so little joy in the same activity. Shopping.

I went with my dad to the farmers market in the morning. Where I saw okra (unfried), fresh goat cheese and to my excitement--ripe, huge, heirloom tomatos. It was a small market, but it filled me up with appreciation. I left with that beatiful tomato, cheese, eggplant and an armful of lemongrass. Cutting into that tomato--a royal deep blood-red--later that night capped a not-so-great shopping adventure inbetween the market and dinner.

While local produce makes me smile ear to ear, car shopping does not leave the same expression. Why is it that my stomach sinks as I think about the idea of purchasing what should be a great key to adventure? Every car I look at, open the trunk and sit in the passenger seat with purchasing intention, I just walk away from thinking, "if I buy it, something will be wrong." It's like I want to be negative to prevent my progression.... or maybe it's the money? Maybe its knowing that I will spend a year's salary on a car, yes a common car. Maybe I"m just equating every potential purchase into potential tomatos?

Lifetime supply of tomatos or a car? Phew, thats actually a tough one! Or maybe its just the frustration that comes along with trying to balance money, choices, schedules and expectations.

Land of the Oaks Fly Away Zone

So.

I was in the Oakland Airport. Airports are always reminders, as I've mentioned in blog posts previous. And now, to add onto the list of reminders-- writing in my blog is one. I see airports, I think blogging.

I was reminded, as a thin, yet very pregnant woman(yes, I know you either are or you are not pregnant-- she was late in her third tri), walked past as I sat waiting. My back was sore, but seeing her I immediately thought about her potential back pain. She has to have some aches, big ones.

An older gentlement sighed loudly as he sat down next to me. I wondered about his feet. Or perhaps his knee hurts, or maybe he clipped his nail too short this morning, or cut himself shaving. A young lady shifted in her seat, did her leg fall asleep, are her shoes too tight?

I just sat and watched people and made up random discomforts in my mind that we don't talk about with strangers. That I knew, I knew they were feeling annoyed by:
I think he has stuff in teeth
Her bra is annoying her
He has a headache
She's nervous so her stomach hurts
He is wearing the pants he hates
She wore the weggie-giving underwear
He forgot to charge his cell phone
She bit the inside of her cheek yesterday and its bothering her...

It seems like I was creating negativity, or that I'm just crazy. But, in the comfort of my randomness I brought us all back to the same level. Travel often makes me stop and notice, and often I see difference-- both for the great and for the not so good. This, little 10 minute episode, besides keeping me occupied, and being rather fun, just reaffired that we aren't all always 100 percent of ourselves. Which, as I squinted in my glasses, drank water to stave off my headache, and yawned at my poor sleeping choices, I settled into knowing that I wasn't alone.

tired

i'm so tired.
just want to sleep.
drifting, drifting, drifting.
wish I was more
like driftwood
could let the water just pushhhhh me
till I knock against the shore
but instead I am that rock
awoken
at each wave;s crashhhhhhhh
against me

sky bleeding

sky bleeding blue today
all over the parking lots
in pools collecting where cars had been
and people had walked
pools and streams
on dark grey concrete
of blue, rich royal blue
sky left behind
as it turned over
to pink, to red, and then to black
sky bleeding blue today

For My Mom

Mom.

For You.

I wrote some new blog entries. Which actually, are old ones.... that I never posted. So there you go. Some old ones.

And one new one.

This one.

About my posts. :-)

Compromise

I need Kari for this. She would sip her Starbucks and bring magic to my thoughts... instant amazing article.



When, I ask, do you change your values to compromise for someone else? When do you change the way you see things? How do you see them through borrowed glasses? Does the world ever become clear even with the wrong prescription on? How do you find answers to these questions.

Try the glasses on. Several times. And if you're still getting a headache because you just can not see a clear solution.... use this:



The Third Party.



Clutch. The Third Party is clutch.

Swelling And Welling

Sometimes things just well
And swell
And you can ignore them
But they'll swell and
Deeper becomes the well.

Entry Way

The problem with having a blog is the shaping of my mind into blog enteries. Like I mentioned in one of my enteries from Guatemala, I title everything. I don't find myself doing that so much these days as actually writing little articles about themes, topics, ideas.... pretty much all the time. It's an ongoing monologue, and I'd like to learn how to quiet it... at times.



Today. Back Home and 25.



I ran today. Hahhaha. Wait. Lets rephrase that. I jogged today, slowly. My 1st jog as a 25 yr old. My short exercise adventure was absolutely delightful. I'm talking cherry on the top delicious moment. The sun was low in the sky over the ocean, I chose the grassy bluff path called Kortum trail and I took my easy jog through the mudpudles. Waves pummled the beaches and rocks, pelicans flew overhead and ravens fought in a bush of lupin. I mean, doesn't that sound amazing? I exaggerate no detail, except for that there were no cherries.







25.



I don't really like the attention you get on your birthday. I don't like being singled out like that, expected to be having the greatest day of all, and having people sing directly to you while you sit akwardly.

This year felt different. Felt like celebrating. Not me so much. But me as a part of so many. I mean, celebrating all in my life these past 25 minutes.

Felt like handing out some high fives and hugs. Good feelings.

Sushi. Is what we really did. Sushi and speeches. I akwardly made my way through something I've wanted to phrase out loud for a while, but something I've always felt embarassed to say. And, yup, I felt embarassed.

So, when do you just push past those feelings and do what you want to do? Say what you want to say?

I've got no answers. But your birthday sure feels like an OK time to say those things :-).


I'm finishing this post much past my birthday.... on my new desire to finish things in life. To give fruition, to finally make myself not be so half-arsed about so many things. So here it is, out of order, but I'm fixing all my old 'draft' posts and just posting them. Not really the "things in life" i feel the deepest to finish, but, feels ok to do it nonetheless.

Snow

The Snow.

You can forget how wonderful the soft blanket of white is... after decades of pushing it over, moving it, sloshing through it and struggling with it... you forget how wonderful, how beautiful.... or maybe you just temporarily forget...

the snow here in flagstaff makes me miss home. Makes me miss being a kid, cold nose and fingers playing in the snow for hours... chewing on the bottom of my face mask and loosing feeling in my toes... snow always crusting in my hair. Breathing in the the snow, face close... snow tunnels and shelters... sledding, bounding, skiing, building castles and snow kingdoms. Snowballs and slidding down hills... road salt treasures and sweet slow slow flakes on the tounge.

the soft big fat flakes in the trees,
crunching underfoot,
coating and covering, and then the silence....
the silence of snow.
the silence of snow in the forest.

the sweet. soft. silence of snow.

Living Da Vida Vegas

Here I am again. Sitting comfortably on the 50s style baby blue couch that contrasts and yet compliments my uncle's modern style Vegas home.

How many entries I would have written in the past five days, more than anyone could have handled to read, and more than my hands could have handled to type.

In the basics, as a refresher for myself heres what myself has been up to:

The New Years Eve Party... the drunk theif, thick smokey air, canadians, and fire in the eye.

Friday I wandered, wandered wandered... and then went to QTs and got medicine that made my mouth numb... crazy. Besides that, I relaxed and prepared for the next day. Oh and wrote in spanish. no es fasil.

Saturday I went to Georgians Fuentes in the am and met five women who braved the hot waters with me. Soups, Salad and Spinning would be the title of that day.

A quick shower, and pack and I was put on a bus (after a few tears on my part) to another bus, to yet another bus, to Josettes house.

Oh Josette's house, what a story onto itself.

The next day, after coffee and a bit of laying down, I made my way to San Marcos. San Marcos is exactly what both the guide book and Laura said that is was: just a chill hippy spot in the world. Yoga, meditation and tofu would sum up that spot... of course that would leave out the beautiful setting and coffee plants, and the extreme amount of gringos and expats. I saw more white people than Guatemalans.

So what did I do there? Two main things. One, I was sick, and couldn't shake it. I would swell with a short fever, then get so dizzy I had to hold onto a banana tree, then get really pissed off and slow down, grumbling about the unfairness of the world. Then I got over my own anger, and just kept blowing my nose. I learned however, not to blow my nose too hard, because it left one ear deaf and the world spinning like ten beers too many. Oh well, was my eventual opinion about the cold that wouldn't leave, oh well, can't do too much about it. Water, tinctures, vitamin c, and thank goodness I packed three hankies.

What else did I do? Nothing. I read a book, 500 pages, in one day. That was nice. The book wasn't nice at all, but the idea of reading in a hammock, which had been my goal, was accomplished. Along with nothing, I went to San Pedro, went out to eat, baked a chocolate cake with the other Hostelers, plaid twister and went cliff jumping and swimming in the lake. Which, has not been explained, is the most beautiful lake I have ever seen... although Rushford pond is pretty sweet.

After many conversations with the other four hostel folks that became my travel friends, I said my goodbyes on the third day, and then boated back to Pana to meet Josette and overspend on souvenirs I am sure I do not need.

A bus ride of crazy proportions with a car full of frenchies, traffic jams that make traffic jams jealous and another bus ride later, and I was the last person dropped off... safely to my hostel in Guatemala City. Cheese pizza, conversation with Nadia and a million kleenex later, I went to bed. 4 am came and with it was I swept off to the airport.

Not too much to be said about 2 planes and 7 hours of waiting in Mexico City airport. Except, it is not designed for sleepy travelers... and Chicken Soup for the Singles Soul... is not a good book.

And Vegas. So many hours later. Finally. Vegas. Here I am. The greatest contrast as of yet.

I can't get rid of this cold, which has manifested into an intense sinus headache. Medicine I took threw me off majorly, putting me in a haze and causing all my facial muscles to seize in pain (or just hurt, really, but seize in pain sounds nicer). We saw O last night, which was amazing. AMAZING.

As my uncle says himself, "You have the best uncle." It's true, I do. And now we're going to make breakfast and head out into the sunny world. If only I could pull this head off and shake it out, screw it back on and feel good. Oh well, nothing can beat the sickness of Morocco 2009, so I'll take this happily (or, not too angrily).